


Dégringolade

by Moonshoes_Potter



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gore, One dog dies, Torture, but it's not graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-11 06:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11142954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonshoes_Potter/pseuds/Moonshoes_Potter
Summary: Ryan Haywood wasn't always the Vagabond. This is the story of his descent into madness.





	1. Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: sorry guys I'm working on something else right now so don't expect any updates for awhile... just a forewarning

Anyone who knew James Ryan Haywood when he was young would say he was the calmest person they knew. The guy could endure a full shift at the cash register without losing his temper at the idiots who came in line. Not that he didn't get angry, he just didn't show his emotions much. 

“Your total is $43.79. No, I can't let an expired coupon slide - the machine knows it's expired. $43.79.”

James calmly summoned his manager at request of the fuming old woman. The manager gritted their teeth and dismissed him to lunch as they dealt with the customer. 

James was stopped in the doorway to the break room by one of his coworkers, who had a look of astonishment and admiration on her face. 

“How do you not just explode when customers are stubborn?”

James shrugged. On the inside he was furious, but he knew that expressing that anger would be of no benefit; he'd probably get laid off if he did. 

Unfortunately, keeping his cool kind of backfired. His superiors thought well of him, so they had him deal with more customers. The day he got promoted to manager was the most frustrating shift James had ever worked. He was so fed up and by the time he got to the bus stop, his anger was starting to show. 

A man walked past, a dog trailing behind him with its tail between its legs and its ears flat. James’ eyes followed them as they walked into an alley.

The dog stopped to sniff a dumpster, like any dog would, but the man was in a hurry. He told the dog so and yanked on the leash, briefly dragging the dog’s head against the dumpster. It yelped and scurried back to him. 

If there's one thing James hated it was innocent people or creatures suffering. He made up his mind and lividly crept up to the abusive man. 

James clasped one hand around the scumbag’s mouth and with the other, he whipped out the pocket knife he'd carried wherever he went since he was ten. He dragged the man into a small alcove out of view of the street, quietly apologizing to the dog he was inadvertently dragging as well. 

“Listen very closely,” James used the same calm voice he did when customers yelled at him. “You're a piece of shit. That dog did nothing to you.”

“He was-” 

James pressed the knife closer to his victim’s trachea. He was internally astonished at how satisfying it was. “This isn't a negotiation. I'm informing why you deserve what I'm about to do to you.”

James was careful to only touch the man’s skin, so as not to leave traces of his DNA on his clothes. Then he very slowly cut a sliver into the abusive owner’s throat. 

He sputtered and bled onto the concrete. James cut deeper, then threw him down once he knew he was dead. He knelt down to pet the dog, who instantly nuzzled up to him and licked the remnants of blood off his face. 

The dog had no name tag. James decided to call him Edgar, after a cow he'd made friends with growing up on his family’s farm. 

Edgar was old, so James couldn't get too attached. But he did make sure that Edgar’s last year the best he could. 

James didn't murder anyone else until after Edgar died. He didn't want to go to jail and leave him with no one to care for. Poor dog had been lonely long enough. 

But after Edgar did end up passing, James clenched his teeth and hunted down the son of a bitch who ran him over without a second thought. James knocked him out and tied him to a chair in an abandoned building. He put on an old Skeletor mask to make sure he wasn’t recognized on his way in. 

James hid in the shadows and drank some whiskey from the bottle while waiting for his victim to wake up in a spotlight. Once he realized where he was, he jerked against his bindings and tried to scream, but he had a sock jammed in his mouth. 

James was thirsty for blood and revenge, but he also wanted to see that asshole squirm. He crept up behind him and clasped his shoulders, making the guy jump. He leaned down and whispered, “This is gonna be fun.”

James hadn't really planned anything, so he took out his pocket knife and ran it down the man’s face. A drop of blood emerged from the red sliver. His victim started breathing hard. 

“I can hear your heart beating,” James pressed the knife to his chest. It got faster. The guy started whimpering. James yelled, “SHUT UP!” and chopped off a finger. A muffled scream and laughter erupted from the two of them. 

James hesitated. Should he ease up? No, a voice inside him insisted, finish what you started. This dick killed a dog. YOUR dog. More noise from both men as another finger splattered to the floor like the rain outside. Another followed. And another. 

It was then James realized the sound he’d thought was rain pattering on the roof was actually a set of feet slowly making their way towards him. But he realized it too late, because just then a cold gun barrel was pressed against the back of his mask where his dyed black hair was exposed. 

Not much remorse was felt in the court trial as his unfinished business pointed his lack of an index finger at him numerous times. Some said life in prison, some said fifty years, and some said thirty. Luckily for James, one juror, a heavily tattooed man in his mid 30s, seemed to be sympathetic. He argued fifteen years in prison would be appropriate, as James had been under alcoholic influence, had no criminal history, and “C’mon, he’s just a kid.” Not the most fair sentence, James thought, but at least it means less jail time for me. 

The rest of the jurors nodded in agreement. That tattooed guy was surprisingly persuasive. The judge declared, “James Ryan Haywood will serve fifteen years in prison for his crime. Case closed.” The gavel dropped and James was escorted to the next fifteen years of his life.


	2. Jailbird

James picked up his lunch tray and stood in queue to get his slop of food. Everyone stepped forward in unison like a line of zombies. It was unsettling, but most likely a common occurrence, because no one else seemed bothered by their behavior.

James knew prisoners could be territorial, so he sat at a table with no one else there to avoid trouble. Being just a weak kid compared to these other buff and bearded criminals, he was an easy target no one would be afraid to shove away.

He was perfectly content with eating alone - it gave him time to observe everyone - but another person sidled up to him and sat down. She didn’t look aggressive or burly, however she did have an authoritative air to her. Other prisoners snuck glances at her, keeping their heads down when her eyes swept over them.

“‘Sup, new guy.” She sized him up. “What’s your name?”

“James,”

“No, that’s not going to work.” The woman put her hand on her chin.

“...It’s not?”

“No, in prison you gotta maintain your reputation, and if you’ve got a goody-two-shoes name that’s gonna be hard.” She smiled a little at James’ lost expression. “You need something more Jason Bourne and less Clark Kent.”

“What’s your name then?” James crossed his arms.

“It’s actually Jacqueline, but around here everyone calls me Jack.” She grinned wider. “So? What's it gonna be?”

“Uh… my middle name is Ryan.” He looked at his food. 

“Now that's more like it.” Jack studied him closely. “Why'd you end up in jail? You seem like a nice guy.”

“Creeped the fuck outta some guy then chopped off most of his fingers.”

“Holy shit. That's dark.” She leaned slightly away from him. “Why?”

“He ran over my dog and didn't even hit the brakes,” Ryan paused to stop himself from choking up. “He deserved it.”

“Wow,” Jack smiled, impressed. “I just robbed a bank. How did you only get jail? Usually stuff like that gets you psychological treatment or some shit, right?”

“One of the more persuasive jurors reminded everyone I was under alcoholic influence and ‘just a kid’; that got me just enough support.”

“Was this guy in his 30s with a shit ton of tattoos?” Jack asked with sudden seriousness. 

“Yeah… you know him?”

“That's my colleague, Geoff. God, I can't believe he actually spoke during a trial. Last time he did that was...” Jack’s eyes were filled with astonishment, then realization. “Dude, we gotta bust outta here,” She gripped his arm and started pulling him towards a full table with surprising strength. 

“Whoa, what? What happened to all that shit about maintaining my reputation?”

Jack shook her head. “That's if you're gonna be here for a while. But we're gonna escape. Soon.”

“Hold on,” Ryan pulled her to look at him. “Why?”

Jack sighed and spoke in quiet tones. “Geoff only talks in court when the accused is someone he senses should join the crew.”

Ryan went pale. “Me? Why me? What crew?”

A guard turned their way. “Hey, lovebirds! Break it up.”

Jack scowled at him. “Dumbass,” she mumbled. “I'll explain it when we go to work.”

The prisoners were escorted to their workstations. Each one had applied for a different prison job, such as cleaning cells, doing laundry, or making uniforms. Ryan and Jack positioned themselves next to each other in the sewing room. They kept their eyes mostly focused on the fabric and moved their mouths very little as they talked so no more idiot guards would get the wrong idea. 

“It's kind of a long story…” Jack admitted. 

“We've got plenty of time,” Ryan gestured at the mountain of fabric that needed to be sewn.

“Can't say it here,” She glanced around. “Basically, you're joining our crew.”

“What crew?” Ryan reached to replace the spool of thread in his machine. 

“The Fake Achievement Hunter Crew.”

Ryan nearly dropped the thread. He'd heard of these guys. The criminals who never got their money but almost always got away. They were untouchable by the cops, even if it meant they ran like pussies from every heist they did, sometimes dragging each other’s unconscious selves away. But when you're in Los Santos, Ryan thought, there's always next time. 

One thing he knew for certain about this crew was that not just anyone got in, and no one got out. They were like a family of wanted criminals, only much less classy than in The Godfather. 

“Geoff thinks you'd be a valuable asset to the crew, and he'd like you to join.” Jack continued. “Whaddya say?”

“Why? I haven't got many skills.”

“Haven't you? If you chopped a guy’s fingers off, you probably have a way with knives and shit, right? That's something we could use.” Jack’s eyes drilled holes in Ryan’s brain, like they were trying to bore into a chest to get to a treasure. 

“Well, fingers aren't hard to get off… they're like carrots.”

Jack raised her eyebrows. “That's not exactly common knowledge, is it?” Ryan opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. “We need someone like you.”

“For what?”

“You know what.” 

Negotiations gone sour, Ryan suspected. No matter how dangerous it sounded, it sure beat rotting in prison for the next fifteen years. Plus, a little risk was always fun. “Sure. When do we start?”


End file.
